test4

HEYDT

Somewhere in Rajastan

I was in India working on the documentary Bulbul: Song of the Nightingale, a film that seeks to raise awareness of the Banchara community and their struggle with the longstanding tradition of caste-based prostitution where girls as young as 10-years-old are forced into the sex trade. These photographs do not reflect the aforementioned. They were taken on early morning walks in Udaipur, as well as in Jaipur, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Delhi, and the Thar Desert.HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT HEYDT

SAM HEYDT is a NYC based artist, designer, filmmaker, photographer, and founder of Jane Street Studio (LLC), a boutique photo studio in the Meatpacking district of Manhattan. Over the last decade she has lived and worked in Paris, Amsterdam, Buenos Aires, Venice, Vilnius, Athens and Istanbul. She has been exhibited in a constellation of galleries & museums throughout Europe, Oceania, the US, UK and in Russia at the State Hermitage Museum. She has done artist residencies in Iceland, Australia and New Zealand.

Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest
7115229223_9dee762474_k

Longform: Lost in America

5

I.

LIGHTNING FLASHES ACROSS THE NIGHT SKY in New Mexico and in that split second they could see God peering down through heaven’s blinds.

Before he turned his back, disappearing into the darkness, leaving them alone with each other, gazing out the car window at the desert and in the desert they could see their families disappearing, their future in the rocks, the inside of their heads turned inside out in the shapes of the mountains silhouetted beneath the dim light of the moon. They kept on driving and the desert followed them to Albuquerque, the city lights simmering in the distance. They avoided the highway that went through the city and kept to the smaller roads on the outskirt of the city. The city beckoned them to pull over, to stop upon this organization of humanity and join it, like sirens singing out their deceiving songs, but passing under the lamp posts they could see each other’s thoughts undressing like an old man going to bed and in the ugly nakedness of life slipping on the icy structure of itself they recognized their own dislike of crowds. He pressed on the gas and left the city behind as sunlight splashed on their faces and yesterday washed off. Continue Reading…

Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest
IMG_6062 - Copy

You Are Here: Hotel Palmyra

I awoke in the middle of a cold night to see a hooded figure in the corner of the room. Though I had popped up abruptly from sleep, I tried to keep some of the sheets around my head to stay warm. What little light came from outside played through the shutters, forming strange lines on the walls. In the dark corners I could barely make out shapes, but the light from outside made it look like someone was in the room. Silent but not threatening, like a sentry keeping watch over me. Somehow I got the feeling it was friendly.

I squinted, not startled but rather skeptical that someone could have gotten down that creaky hall, past the squeaky doors on their old hinges, and slid an old brass key into the lock without waking me up, let alone open the door to my room. I stared at the head looking across at me, a vacant hole in a hood, trying to make out facial features, and as I shook the grogginess from my gaze, it turned into what it really was — a chair with my sweatshirt thrown over it. I rolled over and went to sleep, feeling somehow that if there were ghosts at the Palmyra Hotel, then they were guardian angels looking out for me. Continue Reading…

Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest
emmafick

Interview: Emma Fick

For N13, we interviewed some of our contributors. We talked to writer and sketch artist Emma Fick about narrow mountain roads, tiny ancient churches and the symbiosis of writing and drawing. 

What was the first drawing you ever did?

Learning to wield a pencil is a slow and continuous process, so the literal answer is that my first drawing was a single line, making way to series of lines, making way to shapes, making way to more complex forms.

The first full drawing composition I can remember, however, was a certain Mr. Pickle-head. It consisted of a kind of oblong lump with a face in the middle, sitting on a throne, surrounded by abstract lines and shapes radiating outward to represent his eminence. Mr. Pickle-head was a force to be reckoned with — Mama and Papa told me so. Continue Reading…

Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest
DSC01059 2

You Are Here: Supra and Song in Georgia

Not long after my presentation at Tbilisi State University I was on the Republic of Georgia’s main east-west highway, the guest of Dr. Vakhtang Licheli, an affable man with a white moustache who has been a professor since Soviet times. He took me around the site — a Persian-influenced village from the 4th century B.C., with Zoroastrian shrines, sacred fire areas, pottery fragments, and human remains. After my lecture he invited me to a traditional Georgian feast, a supra, that they were having at an archaeological site west of the capital.

At the supra that evening, the women, all middle-aged and working at the university’s music school, puffed on tiny thin cigarettes throughout dinner. Men and women were seated on opposite sides and between us plates were stacked on plates, with meats, fish, olives, salads, tomatoes, breads, cheeses, and pitchers of wine. Continue Reading…

Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest
Jamaica Submissions (11 of 33)

Somewhere in Negril, Jamaica

IRIE. RESPECT. These two words are what one would hear most while visiting this tropical, lush piece of heaven dead smack in the middle of the Carribean. These are two words that signify the easy going, yet hard-work mentality of the island’s inhabitants. These are two words that will resonate with me until the day I die. Negril, Jamaica is most known for its stunning beaches and the “all-inclusive resort” vibes, but the smarter visitors know there is more than enough beauty hidden within the furthest point of Westmoreland Parrish. I ask that you embrace the environment through these photos as if you’re there. Let all of your senses get lost in each moment. This is Jamrock… a getaway like no other.1_22 1_23 1_24 Continue Reading…

Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest
emily morris tz shillings

Longform: Thirst

5

IT WAS DAY FIFTEEN OF RAMADAN and the sun was midway through the sky. The rains had long ceased and the roads of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, were again cracked and dusty.

I had made it through another week of negotiating the tricky balance of working and fasting; my body felt both strong and lethargic. There were four hours before iftar, the break-the-fast meal, with my adopted family. I had succumbed to the heat and was lying on the cool tile floor, waiting. I fumbled for my mobile and called my sister to pass the time. I could hear the hiss of food frying and women chatting in the background. I could almost smell the cassava boiling and my stomach rumbled as I hung up the phone. I decided to go for a massage.  Continue Reading…

Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest
drewbatcherdrawing

Interview: Drew Bratcher

For N13, we interviewed some of our contributors. Hear from Drew Bratcher on witnessing real poverty and the storytellers on the coast of Northern Ireland.

How do you take notes on the road?

I got into the practice of carrying a pen and pocket notepad back when I worked as a reporter. It’s a habit I haven’t kicked. One time I met a journalist from a big-name paper who told me he never took notes, not even during interviews. If it was important, it would stick, that was his theory. I can’t do that. I’m always making observations, always hearing phrases, but without a place to record them, I draw blanks down the road. Continue Reading…
Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest
DSC_1651.NEF

The Flaneur: How Onam Arrived to Fort Kochi

I was in my guesthouse’s communal toilet smoking my pipe when I first heard the drumbeats.

I was getting stoned and had the vague plan of going for a bicycle ride afterward, a leisurely roll around the streets of Fort Kochi, perhaps down to the fishermen’s wharf, where I could drink coconuts and people-watch under the banyan trees. That was my plan, anyway. But when I heard the drums something inside me woke up, the approaching drum brigade had set me alight. Continue Reading…

Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest
freddiprice

Interview: Freddi Price

For N13 we interviewed some of our contributors. Freddi Price talked about being a “van man,” the pull of nature, and the American version of freedom.

 

If you could drive one car on one road for a week, where and what would they be?

I have always been a “van man”, in that I have always had a van since my teens. As far as over-land vehicular travel goes, a van provides one with the most freedom. A home on the road. A sail boat on land .Any van would do. But I suppose my fantasy would be one of those tricked out 4-wheel-drive Chinooks or the like.
The road? Almost any of the ones in Southern Utah. But had I to choose just one of them, then it would be the dirt track that follows along the Butler Wash on the eastern side of the Comb Ridge, between Blanding and Bluff, Utah. You’d have a hard time keeping me there for only a week, though! Continue Reading…
Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest